Over Homo Hill

August 30, 2016

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Seoul is a city I wouldn’t bother to get lost in—wherever you are, an interesting experience almost always awaits. My first meal in the city was with friends in a place that happened to specialize in blood sausage. The ajumma (what you’d call an elderly Korean waitress) approached us, and just when I thought I knew enough basic Korean to order for my friends and I, we had resorted to broken English. Luckily, the ajumma knew I was Chinese and spoke to me in Mandarin. Thanks to 13 years of basic Chinese that I learned but never really used back in Manila, we got ourselves lunch. Blood sausage stew turned out to be pretty good.

The city streets are packed with people who—to my untrained foreign eye—all look alike. The beauty standard was clear. Hardly anyone was obese; hairstyles were all a slight variation of the trend; and most everyone had either clear skin or BB cream applied—men included. The most fascinating thing about this was that all of them—from kids, to teens, to adults—walked with intent. It seemed as if they had their entire day, week, or month planned out, and all they had to do was to see it through. I wish my life was more like theirs, I thought.

Seoul was the grand finaleto several trips I went on since I started college. Travel was an attempt to break free of the aimless routine that I had become accustomed to. In my freshman year, I thought: why worry when you have so much time? But two years since, I realized there was little going for me—the reality more apparent over a bag of Sour Cream potato chips and an episode of Game of Thrones. What exactly do I have planned for the future? Why don’t I know what’s going to happen in my life in as short as three months? First thought: I needed to get out of the house. Maybe even get out of town, and possibly, out of the country.

Seoul was everything I expected it to be. My affinity with the city was strong. I started learning Korean a few years back, not to mention immersed in Korean media. It’s how I learned that gay is taboo in these parts. For gay men, discretion is advised, and to family, secrecy about one’s sexual orientation is favored. It wasn’t too different from my life back home. I’m not out to my family. I always just tell myself that they don’t need to know yet and that I’m content with the relationship I have with them; a comfortable distance sweetened by respect for one another. Right now is not the right time—but then I’ve always wondered: when will it be?

I worry less about such thoughts when I’m traveling. Besides, if being gay isn’t entirely accepted in Korea, there was Homo Hill—a small street in Itaewon dedicated to gay bars, where the queer community let’s the day’s discretions out at night. With an actual district for my kind of dating, there were thoughts of actually finding love in Seoul. Tinder would be a good reflection of this. Yet as I opened the app, its bright flame fizzled to reveal foreigners who were looking for the same thing I was. On the other hand, I thought: maybe gay Korean guys don’t use Tinder that much.

After a night of swiping left and right, my travel buddies and I met up with a friend who lives in the city. On the itinerary were three nights of revelry, where we would hop from one club to another until we made our way to Homo Hill. “We’ll have the most fun there,” she said. The first two nights led us to Hongdae, where college kids live it up until sunrise on the weekends. We first found ourselves at a cozy underground hookah bar and on to a snazzy noraebang, Korea’s version of a KTV joint. Night two involved actual clubbing, from all-foreigner clubs to EDM clubs, to hip-hop clubs that were a definite thrill. To my friends, though, fun required flirtation, and they urged me to talk to any cute guys that came our way. Yet I held off, reminding them that Homo Hill still awaited us.

The following night, I excitedly walked to my gay graceland via an uphill street that led to Itaewon. Perusing the first few bars there felt like a bust—it was as if people didn’t want to be bothered. Finally, we settled in Always Homme, one of the livelier bars. Its owner Eomma (his name literally means mother in Korean) welcomed us in with a “Gandang Bakla!”—the only Filipino greeting he knew—once he found out where we came from.

As people came and went, Homme felt less like home and more like my Tinder search turned into reality. Filling the bar were 30-something foreigners who were only interested in Korean men—or guys their age. Noticing my spirits wane, my friend took it upon herself to approach a Latino guy by the bar. “Me gustas gwapas,” he told her, thinking she was trying to hit on him. The feeling of unease was undeniable now. I quickly suggested we head back to Hongdae, to the clubs we enjoyed. Over drinks and hip-hop music, the night turned hesitantly around.

In the morning, I thought about how Homo Hill wasn’t the place I thought it would be—some kind of proof that comfort lay beyond the home I’d always known. Comfort is a funny concept, though. I wondered why I expected to find solace in a country where I had to speak a different language. And especially in a country where queer wasn‘t even comfortable out of the closet.

I thought about Manila, a place that I hadn’t even gone out of my way to make comfortable for myself. First was the career path I hadn’t even begun to tread; second was the family I had yet to come out to. Leaving wasn’t the answer to fixing these two things—only the reminder that I needed to.

I think I’ve travelled enough for now, I told myself as the plane touched down to Manila. There was enough that would keep me grounded, anyway. I planned to be more involved in college extracurricular activities; to save money; and more immediately, to open up a little more to my family.

I arrived a little before dinner to meet my parents, who were excited to get a bite at our favorite Korean restaurant. To my surprise, my dad orders us a bowl of blood sausage stew. As soon as it arrives, I divide the dish into small bowls for my family. As I served each of them, there was little lost in translation. It was a clear moment shared among us, and I thought, maybe sooner rather than later, I’d be able to share something more with them.

SHOP

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TEAM tackles how gay Filipino men relate their identity, from fuckups to fantasies, to where to go for music you can actually dance to. We may not have proper rights in our country but we’re claiming some authority by getting our words and ideas on page. And though we lack public places to convene, an open publication (and wide-open digital space) is a good place to start.